


slow

by blackholenipples



Category: Fairy Tail
Genre: Alternate Universe - Normal Life, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-25
Updated: 2018-01-25
Packaged: 2019-03-09 06:36:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13475778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackholenipples/pseuds/blackholenipples
Summary: Tuesday nights are slow. It's a fact of life.





	slow

Tuesdays are slow. It's a fact of life when you work in a bar, especially a dive like this one. By one, there's five people left in the place. 

Mirajane sits behind the bar, watching. Nobody’s bought a drink in an hour and a half and she’s still got two hours until close. 

Makarov is in the back counting coins. Cana is snoring gently in a corner. Old Macao and Wakaba are sitting in a corner booth as always. They're well into the bottle of cheap bourbon sitting on the table between them, but even their drunken laughter can't fill up the room.

Mira used to love this type of night. Lisanna used to sit at the bar drinking tea and doing her coursework (I’m going to be a vet, Sis! My grades need to be perfect). They would go out and wander through the earliest hours of the morning with her camera and a string of lights. 

The bar is pretty in the night, but it’s too quiet. Pretty as a picture, all old wood and low light, clean but plain and everything is sturdy (built to last through the almost-daily brawls some of the regulars like to cause). 

The bell above the door dings and she puts down the glass she was drying to plaster a grin on her face. Mira’s not entirely sure the girl coming in the door is nineteen. 

She’s got long red hair that falls straight and tangle-free as though there isn’t a windstorm whistling right outside the door. She moves with the kind of casual elegance that makes Mira especially aware of the mascara that’s smudged under her eyes and the fading bruise on her forehead from where gray accidentally clipped her in a fight a few days ago. 

She sweeps her hair back over her shoulder and her pretty brown eyes are red with irritation. She looks up at the chalkboard with it’s list of beer with a puzzled frown that seems to mark the people that really need a drink. 

Mira makes her voice gentle when she asks, “What’ll you have? I can’t give you anything alcoholic unless I see some ID, but it’s quiet enough that I can make a cup of tea if you need it.”

The girl looks at her and blinks slowly. A tear leaks out of her left eye. 

She lets it fall onto the countertop and brings out a driver's license. Twenty-three. 

“A cup of tea sounds… really nice actually.” She says quietly. Her voice is hoarse from crying. 

Mira plugs the old electric kettle in. She’s got black tea and the chamomile that Lisanna always drinks when she visits. Used to drink when she would visit. 

That train of thought is not one she wants to take right now. 

“Do you want to talk about it? I find offloading on anonymous bartenders cathartic.”

The girl makes a noise that’s half-choked laugh and half sob. She crumples onto her arms on the countertop. 

Mira may have miscalculated. 

The kettle boils with perfect timing. Definitely a chamomile night. Mira makes two cups and places one gently on the counter beside the redhead who’s crying is starting to slow. 

In the back, by the booths, Mira takes note that Cana’s woken up and stood up to leave for the night. She’ll undoubtedly be back tomorrow, but Mira’s glad that she’s making an early night of it nonetheless. 

Macao is still mumbling incoherently into his glass and Wakaba’s head is tipped back against the booth, fast asleep. 

Mira blows some of the steam off of her tea and breathes in the familiar smell. It’s not a happy smell anymore, but it’s warm and comforting. 

The girl at the counter is wiping at her eyes. She takes a sip of the still-scalding tea without flinching. She sighs. 

“I had to identify the body of my roomate at the city morgue this afternoon. And I don’t know what i’m going to say when I call his sister.” She says, voice strained.

She takes another gulp of her tea. 

“She and her girlfriend were going to visit for Christmas.” 

Mira squeezes her eyes shut. At least she didn’t have to tell Elfman. 

“Call her. You’re not doing her any favours by postponing the news.” Mira says. She stares down into the cup in her hands and considers for a second. She’ll never be the type to drink on the job, but if it were beer, she’d be downing it. She takes a too-large gulp and burns the roof of her mouth. 

The girl is looking at her with more clarity in her eyes than she’s had all night. 

“You’ve been there.” It’s a statement that Mira doesn’t see the need to respond to. 

The girl tilts her head and there’s a wistful ghost of a smile starting to peek through the sadness she wears so gracefully. 

“Simon… he had a hero thing. We all joked that he was going to get himself killed, but I didn’t actually expect it to happen until he was at least middle aged.”

“My sister, Lisanna.” Mira offers. “We were in a car accident. My brother lost control on a patch of ice and there was an incoming car that sped right into us. She’s been in a coma for the last three years.” 

“He asked me to marry him. Simon. When we were six. Milliana, his sister, she’s the only one who ever thought it would happen.” 

“She used to love having her photo taken. And cats.”

“He told me we would be friends forever.” 

The girl looks down at her phone. 

“Thank you.” 

She puts a five-dollar bill into the tip jar and brings the phone to her ear. 

“Hey Milliana. Yeah, It’s Ezra. There’s something I have to tell you. It’s about simon…” 

She walks out the door. 

Mira is… lighter. Talking about Lisanna will never not be painful. But it was easier, with someone who didn’t know her. The only pain Mira had to account for was her own. 

She looks around the bar. 

Two empty mugs to clean. 

Makao and Wakaba are snoring over an empty bottle of cheap bourbon in a booth at the back. 

Makarov’s in the back counting coins. 

Tuesday nights are slow. It’s a fact of life. 


End file.
